


The Landscape After Cruelty

by Cinaed



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Het, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles stands at her door for a long moment before he knocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Landscape After Cruelty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Olivier/Miles, solace.'

Miles stands at her door for a long moment before he knocks. 

When General Armstrong opens the door, he is unsurprised to see her in full uniform despite the late hour. Not a single hair is out of place, and her sword is still at her side. She stares at him without expression; then something gleams in her eyes and the corner of her mouth lifts upward. 

It's a minuscule gesture. If Miles hadn't been watching for it, he would have missed it. Still, it's enough to quiet the voice in the back of his that murmurs bothering the general is suicide. 

"Have you changed your mind about that one-on-one duel?" Armstrong asks. Now she lets a grin overtake her face, one that is wolfish and hungry for bloodshed. 

"No," Miles says before she can grow more eager and reach for her sword. He starts to continue, and then stops. The words seem foolish, inadequate, now that he is standing before her, meeting her watchful eyes. 

He says, "I couldn't sleep. I thought you might have orders for me." 

(Somewhere in an unnamed, unmapped internment camp, his cousins sleep uneasily. Or perhaps they too cannot quiet their own minds. Perhaps they pace their rooms, brooding over injustice and their lack of freedom.)

Armstrong says nothing for a moment. Then she snorts, loud and sharp. "Come in," she says. " _Come in_ ," she snaps when he blinks at her. 

It's her Ice Queen voice, the one that promises pain if you make her repeat herself one more time. Miles finds himself entering the room at parade march on pure instinct. 

When he turns to face her, she's already shut the door, trapping him inside. She's frowning, but while it's a dangerous look (all of her expressions are dangerous, after all, even-- no, perhaps,  _especially_ \-- the pleasanter ones), it's also a contemplative expression. 

"Before, I told you that I needed your unique perspective to aid Briggs's survival," she says. "It's obvious that your perspective will be compromised if you cannot sleep." She eyes him, a quick, assessing flick of her gaze from the top of his head to his boots. Her frown deepens. "You haven't slept in three days." It isn't a question.

"No," Miles agrees. His weariness makes his bones ache, his thoughts sluggish, but every time he closes his eyes, his grandfather's grave, sorrowing face accuses him of something he cannot put a name to. Cowardice, perhaps, or uselessness. 

Armstrong nods to herself. "You need to stop thinking long enough to sleep." She crowds him, invading his personal space so that his hair rises on the back of his neck and he almost, but doesn't, retreat. 

He'd known her eyes were blue; this close, he can see a ring of darker blue at the edges. He wonders if anyone else has been this close to the general before and survived to tell the tale. Probably not, he thinks, and keeps very still, the way you stay motionless before a snake about to strike. 

"Miles," Armstrong says quietly. "You are going to stop thinking." Despite the low voice, it is clearly an order. 

Miles doesn't question orders often-- his demand to know why Armstrong hasn't sent him to an internment camp being the rare exception-- but he cannot parse this command. If he could turn off his mind, silence the worries and pained thoughts cluttering his head, he wouldn't be here in the middle of the night. 

She presses a gloved hand to the back of his neck, rubs her thumb against the raised hairs there. "Stop thinking," she orders, and kisses him. 

It's a hard, harsh kiss without any semblance of lust or longing, but the shock of it goes straight through him like a knife. He jerks back, his eyes going wide as she tightens her grip on the back of his neck.

She shakes him lightly, like he's a misbehaving puppy. "Do I need to repeat myself, Major?" she asks. Her mouth is red, her lips swollen. As he watches, her tongue briefly darts out to taste the corner of her mouth.

"No, General," Miles says automatically. His lips feel bruised, and he resists the urge to bring a hand up to touch his mouth and see if his fingers come away bloody. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. 

This time he isn't surprised when she kisses him, can actually bring himself to respond and kiss her back. There is still no longing behind the gesture, but there is something there that would be called tenderness from anyone other than the general. 

Miles doesn't know if she is actually interested. Perhaps she is. Perhaps she isn't, and this is simply what she's decided is best for his health and therefore instrumental to the safety of Briggs. Whatever the reason, he obeys, lets his thoughts turn entirely to this-- the rough texture of the glove against his neck, how her other hand rests briefly on his hip before she begins steering him towards her bed, the rush of cold air against his chest as she works his uniform's buttons and tosses his jacket onto the back of a nearby chair.

She pauses long enough to prop her sword against the nightstand, within arm's length of the bed. Then she peels off her gloves. When she touches him again, her callused fingers are cool against his chest. 

This is kindness of a sort, Miles thinks. 

When she pushes him towards the bed, he lets himself fall.


End file.
